Mad Hatter
by lysergicbitch96
Summary: Sherlock mysteriously finds himself in an American rehab, treated by the chilling, Dr. Richard Brook. His memory is inexplicably clouded, as is his deduction abilities. Luckily, a new patient (John Watson) shows up to provide Sherlock with some clarity.
1. Chapter 1

Sneak peek at the story. Chapters will be longer in the future. John shows up soon, don't worry.

* * *

I'm not a fearful man. Rarely am I strangled by terror, but traveling dope sick through American customs is truly a frightful ordeal. I can't say how I got here. Obviously there must have been a plane and…something or other. As far as my mind can stretch, it still cannot fill the holes in my memory. I've been living out a postmodern play of sorts—switching from one scene to the next with no direction or purpose other than to…confuse.

* * *

 **Dr. Brook:** Sherlock?

 **Sherlock:** Hm? Sorry, I'm a little um…distracted. Could we pick this up again tomorrow?

 **Dr. Brook** : No, we can't. Not again.

 **Sherlock** : It's the meds. They slow me down; they turn my mind….inward.

 **Dr. Brook:** I have the tech log here from last night. Apparently you said, and I quote, "Obviously I'm cleverer than anyone here, just leave me alone to take care of myself."

 **Sherlock** : The impact of the insult is clearly lost in translation.

 **Dr. Brook:** So you do feel as if you could be in charge of your own treatment.

 **Sherlock** : Yes! So just let me leave. This clearly isn't working anyway.

 **Dr. Brook** : You're not leaving, Sherlock. Not until you start talking.

* * *

I tongued my meds and spat them out in the trashcan by my bedside. There's been a mistake. Focus. Focus, Sherlock. Where am I? There were palm trees on the ride from the airport. Were those palm trees? I collapsed backwards on my bed. This mattress is…lumpy. My clothes. What am I wearing? I felt down my chest and grasped onto thick polyester t-shirt material. My pants are paper thin with a loose drawstring. I lay splayed on the bed staring up at the frightfully yellowing ceiling above. All things considered, this certainly is one of the nicer…facilities. So far as I could tell. Logically, that means my stay here is costly, and, therefore funded by my deplorable sibling. _Mycroft_. I turned sideways into a tense fetal position and strangle the deflated pillow with both my arms.

Think. If I could only just…think.

I must have dosed off retracing my steps. I awoke to Dr. Richard Brook inserting his leporine face through the crack in the door. He knocked rhythmically as he entered. Confident. His knocking pattern triggered some fragment or shard of a memory.

"Sherlock," he purred, "time to get up, I'm afraid."

Dr. Brook perched himself on the twin bed opposite mine, the one with the view of the parking lot.

I chose to be up against the wall. I chose it.

Scraping the sleep from my eyes, I propped myself up on my left arm, facing the good doctor. He leaned forward, arms resting on his legs, and the amiability left his expression.

"We don't allow sleeping in late here."

I raised my eyebrows at the change in his tone and gracefully swept myself out of bed. I stood. Staring at him for several moments, awaiting a comment or a demand. Finally, I posed a question, "And where exactly would 'here' be?"

Dr. Brook's expression softened and he stood to face me. He stood too close. His eyes widened and he gazed up at me, as if I were some lost mystical creature.

"The medication might be affecting your memory…and other cognitive functions. Sherlock, you overdosed. You're in a treatment center in Los Angeles. I'm here to help you get better," he said, smiling.

None of what he said seemed right or made sense. I had a visceral instinct not to trust this man, yet I followed him anyway to the med station. The nurse handed me my morning dose in a small dixie cup. With Dr. Brook standing directly behind me I had no choice but to swallow the goddamn poison. I could feel its trajectory down my esophagus.

Dr. Brook gently took my arm and turned my body to the left, leading me down a windowless corridor to his office.

"It's time for our session."

He opened the door and motioned for me to take a seat in the green pleather armchair next to the wilting fern. I did as I was told, yet stared at him with as scrutinizing a gaze that I could muster.

"So," he said, sitting down opposite me, "You're going to be getting a roommate tonight."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

* * *

 **Sherlock:** No. No, this is not making sense. The gaps—they feel…artificial. And, well, I can't concentrate. My mind can linger on a thought long enough only to exacerbate my curiosity. I can ask all the questions, but forget them before beginning to formulate an answer.

 **Dr. Brook:** You haven't been diagnosed with anything besides substance abuse, right? I see you're a self-proclaimed sociopath, but, Sherlock, do you ever…

 **Sherlock:** Ever what?

 **Dr. Brook:** Question the nature of your reality?

* * *

As usual, I retired to my room early and refused to participate in whatever frivolous social event the apathetic techs had thrown together. Although, to my surprise, unlike the other few nights I'd grumpily barged into my room, a man and his suitcase were there to greet me.

"Hey," he said meekly.

He flexed his fingers against his knees and his eyes darted around the humbly-sized room, frightened like a newly captured animal. My mind stretched and writhed with the yearning to read this man—to make my deductions. I growled and smacked my forehead with my palms. Have I become ordinary? I sighed and collapsed onto my bed, rolling over to my side, and was so lost in self-pity I had forgotten all about the mopey man sulking only several feet from me. Of course, until he gently cleared his throat. I abruptly twisted my neck and narrowed my gaze on his face. His edges were blurry—as it was with everything on the drugs. Yet, some dormant facet of my abilities activated. I can't say how—the information felt fragmented—but I managed to deduce he was a war vet.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" I asked, nonchalantly.

He twitched and jerked his head to face me. He blinked.

"S-Sorry what?"

I almost smiled with relief upon discovering he was English.

"Which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"How would you—Did they?—"

"—No, no one slipped me your file or even told me your bloody name," I snapped. "I was simply asking a question." I shifted onto my back and crossed my arms behind my head. Without moving, I slid my gaze to the left in order to steal another foggy glance at him. I observed him swallow nervously.

"And how did you know to ask that question? Hmm?"

"Wish I could tell you. I used to have been able to tell you," I said wistfully, "but with all the drugs, my brain doesn't quite function at my usual standards, I'm afraid."

He rolled his eyes and relaxed his posture. He was assuming that I was just another looney. Talking nonsense. Word salad and what not. To my own surprise, I desperately wished to prove him wrong.

"Name's Sherlock Homes," I said before turning to face the wall.

"John Watson," I heard him mumble.

The following morning I awoke to an empty room and fifteen minutes left of breakfast to spare. Hurrying, I stumbled into my slippers and my dressing gown. Dizzy and morning sick, I paused at the threshold of my room before groggily shuffling down the hall of the ward towards the kitchen.

I was late, as I said, so the kitchen was overrun with my…peers. Americans are revolting in what they choose to fill their bulbous bellies with. I nearly gasped when I saw one of my fellow zombified patients pouring Coffee-Mate into his chai tea.

"Heresy," I heard someone whisper behind me. One quick head jerk and I was able to ascertain the voice's identity. John Watson.

I turned and leaned against the counter in the far corner of the room, facing him from guarded angle. I knit my brow together and examined him. He certainly seemed far less dosed and far more normal than the rest of the gang.

"Americans," I muttered in response, flashing him a quick smirk.

He grinned with what appeared to be relief. I must have begun to prove my sanity. To think, HE was questioning if I was worthy to be in HIS presence. I suppressed a scoff and motioned for him to follow me to the tea station on the opposite wall. Like a trained hound—or a helpless puppet—John trailed behind me as if he were a summoned familiar. Interesting, I thought.

I made him tea and sat silently with him, watching him drink it. War vet, here for mental health—not drugs or alcohol, obviously—and for the life of me I couldn't say why, but I gathered he was a doctor. Somehow.

"Did you practice in the army?"

He spluttered and gaped at me for a moment before wiping the dribbled tea from his lips.

"What do you mean?"

"You're a doctor, aren't you?"

He chuckled and sat back in the plastic chair.

"And how could you possibly know that?" he asked, crossing his arms tightly against his chest. Defensive.

I rolled my eyes and, looking away, casually commented, "That's me. I drink tea and I know things."

I had peaked his interested. He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the edge of the tiny round table. He jerked his head to the left.

"And what about that guy?" I followed his gesture to gaze upon the patient seated at the table beside ours. "What do you know about him?"

Examining the drooling man, I sipped my tea and drank in the information. After a few moments, I turned back to John and presented my findings matter-of-factly.

"Schizophrenic, catatonic, isolated, never married, family is dead, and the hard-bristled toothbrush he's using is causing his gums to recede from his teeth. The Zyprexa he's on is the culprit behind the apparent back pain, and the Klonopin is what's causing the excessive salivation." I paused, noticing John's disbelief. "And before you ask who told me these things or how I know them, I'll remind you, in case you haven't made the deduction yourself, that I've been here only two days longer than you."

He eyed me suspiciously and I maintained his glare. Something in his gaze, or perhaps more likely the onset of my morning meds, made my body feel lighter. I barely grimaced when Dr. Brook called for Morning Group.


End file.
